Into Oblivion
by axisofsymmetry
Summary: The cursed ballet shoes are locked away, but Dean still has the urge to dance.


**Title: Into Oblivion  
Word count: ~1750  
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester, none  
Content warnings: none  
Timeline: post-7x16, Out With the Old**

**AN: I came across a gifset on tumblr of that ballet shoes episode last night and spent a good couple hours (HOW) writing this. It's really self-indulgent, really just...me getting back into writing and actually publishing my stuff. I got a real kick out of writing it, and I hope there are a few people out there who enjoy reading it.**

**As always, I'm more than happy to receive constructive criticism, and you may also find me on tumblr by the same name.**

**-Axis**

Into Oblivion

The ballet shoes are locked away, but Dean can still feel that tug in his chest, that urge to slip on a pair and polonaise his way around the room until his legs ache and his lungs burn. Except that it's nothing to do with the cursed object this time. Well—not entirely. They fed his desire.

He hasn't danced in years, since Sam went off to college and Dean needed to find a hobby to keep himself busy and out of the house to avoid his dad's wrath. And before that—when his mom was alive. While dad was at work, she would blast classical music on the stereo system and twirl Dean around until they both grew too tired to laugh anymore, let alone breathe. They would retire to the kitchen and have a snack of carrots in ranch dressing, or fresh pineapple that burned Dean's tastebuds if he ate too many too fast, or cashews and apple juice, before she would shoo Dean off to his room to find a quiet activity to immerse himself in before his dad came home from work.

He quietly reflects on that as he enters a dance supply store that he spotted on the drive into the town. Barely talks to the saleswoman, just studies the many displays until he sees a simple pair of dance shoes, not the kind you can get en pointe with, but he never got that far in lessons anyway. Something about his ankles being too weak, needing to build more strength.

They're a muted pink color, a barely noticeable tint of it in the sleek fabric, and he lets his fingers and his thumbs sink into them, the ties draped over his wrists and dangling, reaching for the floor.

He buys them before he can convince himself out of it, then wraps them in a plastic bag and, when he returns to the motel he and Sam are staying at, stuffs the bag as deep into his duffel as he can get it.

.

He sneaks out while Sam's asleep, leaving a simple note of "gone out, back later. phone is on. -dean", with his shoes wrapped up in a pair of sweatpants and stuffed tightly under his arm. Even though he'd rather not leave Sam alone in his state, the need to work off his urge has been growing stronger over the past couple days. He promises himself he'll make it quick, no more than two hours at most, and keep his phone on, and bring back food and coffee when he's done.

He intends to break into the dance studio, its location being one of the few things he learned from his sparse conversation with the person helping him at the dance supply story—intends to, except it's unlocked and half the lights are on. Wary, he walks in and sees someone cleaning up at what he assumes is the reception desk.

The man explains, after Dean's questioning, that the studio is more like a community center, open to whoever wants to use it until midnight. Dean thanks him and scopes the place out. He finds dressing rooms, bathrooms, and three separate rooms to dance in, each of them large and well-lit. One is in use, some Russian-sounding music emanating from the open door, along with what sounds like at least five pairs of feet dancing to it, so he takes the one farthest from it and sets down his bundle, then toes off his boots—because he remembers his first day in his first class, when the instructor scowled and explained in a faux-patient voice that street shoes were absolutely _not_ allowed on the dance floor—then he unrolls his bundle and changes quickly from jeans to dark gray sweatpants, shimmies out of his jacket and patent four layers until he's only wearing a thin v-neck (forest green), and sits down on the ground, picking up the left slipper as he does so.

He slips it on and wriggles his toes around, getting comfortable in the new shoe, and ties the ribbons up tight enough that they'll stay on, loose enough that he doesn't lose circulation. He does the same to the right and slides his sweatpants down to cover the ties, even though he knows that inevitably they'll pull upward as he moves.

He sits there for a moment, marveling at how comfortable he is doing this, even alone, even without a teacher, even though he hasn't for years. He wiggles his toes again, then shakes out his hands, and does a couple quick stretches—more than he's ever done in preparation for a hunt.

Using his arms to push himself up off of the floor, he walks over to the stereo system at the back of the room, his posture getting straighter and his steps getting lighter as he goes, as Dean mentally prepares himself.

To his delight, there are already set playlists—that means that he doesn't have to dance to one of his classic rock cassettes, which was his plan B, because they're not exactly the best to do this kind of dancing to.

He presses buttons until he finds one he likes the title of, and presses play. The sound of soft static comes through the speakers for a few seconds, and he uses that time to move to the center of the room.

The first notes of the Swan Lake suite begin to play, and he lets out a huff of laughter, before he curves his arms in front of him and points his left foot out. He doesn't really know what he's doing, just kind of moves with the music, starting with valse steps across the floor before he takes a leap into the air, stretching his legs as far as he can—his feet hit the floor hard, and he wobbles a little as he tries to retain balance while keeping his feet pointed out, but then he's moving again, spinning into the crescendo of the music, breathing quick and hard through his nostrils, his staccato breaths making his nose cold, a stark contrast to the rest of his body, warming with his movements.

He taps softly across the floor again, his weight on his toes, his steps quieter the longer he stays on the floor, and does an experimental pirouette, spinning three times on the ball of his right foot, head whipping around with each turn, before he feels himself losing balance and stops, putting out his left foot to catch his weight. He does it again, his arms rounding in front of him from straight out his sides, and resets.

He does it again and again until he can spin in place for so long that he loses count of the turns he's made and grows dizzy. With a hand to his forehead to stop the room spinning, he steps away from the spot and shakes out his arms and legs, before attempting some moves that he saw more advanced dancers do, and moves that he saw in _Black Swan_, moves that he doesn't know the names to, but that make his muscles ache, the stretches in his muscles foreign after years without, everything completely different to hunting, less natural to him. He moves to the music, matching the swells and the decrescendos to the millisecond, until he can't think of anything else to imitate, and devolves once again into simply spinning lazily across the floor.

He pirouettes again, spinning around and around, when he notices that someone has entered the room. He keeps his gaze on her as well as he can, what with the whole spinning thing, until he finally slows and stops, big toe of his left foot barely touching the floor behind him.

Always on the defensive, he half-whispers _cristo_, and only relaxes when he realizes she hasn't reacted, except to furrow her eyebrows.

She's a dancer, an experienced one at that—he can tell by her lithe body, her toned arms and shoulders and legs. Not to mention she is wearing pointe shoes, in contrast to Dean's, and they're well-worn and loved. Her eyes are on him, as if she's awaiting invitation. She probably is. Dean nods and holds out a hand to her.

They don't exchange greetings, nor do they exchange names—she's only here to dance, and so is he. She smiles at him, dark hair and dark eyes and dark skin a contrast to Dean's white white white everything—he likes how his skin looks next to hers, his calloused hand gently cradling her delicate fingers.

A new song begins, and they move to it. She steps, and he follows her. Across the room and back. She twirls, he lifts her, he holds her balanced as she dips to the floor, legs completely straight while her torso is perpendicular, her muscles minutely straining to keep her composed before he lifts her upright again, and then they twirl around the room in tandem once more.

They dance together for three long songs (not that there are any _short _classical songs) before she curtseys, her smile brighter than a galaxy, and he bows in return, returning the smile in full. She gracefully walks off the floor and out of the room, and Dean decides to dance to one more song before he retires back to Sam and their current motel room.

When he returns, he's still sweaty despite the fact that he drove back with all the windows down, his muscles are already starting to ache, his shoes are stuffed inside his sweats once more, and Sam's fast asleep. He smiles and deposits the diner meal he bought on the table beside Sam's bed, then takes the longest shower he can while still standing upright.

Dean may have worked off the urge to dance, but—he eyes his sweats, squeezes one hand around the bundle until he can feel the give of the shoes beneath. There's no way he's throwing out his shoes this time, not like last time. He stuffs the whole thing into the bottom of his duffel again and smiles a little. So what if Sam finds them in a couple weeks time when he's looking for enough clothes to make a single load of laundry. Sam's soft, like Mom. Maybe he'll even want a pair of his own.

With that thought in mind and a large smile on his face, Dean falls onto his bed.

He sleeps exquisitely that night.


End file.
